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Monday, August 24, 2009

You've got to give the Guardian props for this one. After the Booker longlist was revealed, a blog post discussed how "the internet" always disagrees with the judges.

These criticisms fall into three main camps:

1) Your favourite book didn't win. This is the most egregious error the judges make, and they make it again and again. Worse still, instead of your favourite book, they select one that is at best mediocre and at worst thoroughly dull. What's wrong with them? 2) The books are always about post-colonial guilt, Irish poverty or English middle-class Islingtonians having Terribly Important Thoughts about their boring love lives … Where's the SF? Is that not literature? Where's the danger? Where's the challenge? Surely they are missing something. 3) The panel are unrepresentative. Who are these people? Who chooses them? Why should, say, James Naughtie be judging this year's prize? Are they really better judges than you or I?

The Guardian handed over nominations to the general public, compiled the list and invited all readers to judge by voting (and the only mention of possible voter fraud was to dismiss the idea, kudos!). And now, at long last, the shortlist, announced. Another list full of books I haven't read yet. Charming.

It's a nice idea. In fact, a really nice idea. Handing over a chunk of the responsibility to the masses, the folks who ultimately read these books. And so what if the Not the Booker prize lacks the prestige of the Booker and receives only a mug as a prize? It's a good way to find out what books people are reading... Hopefully next year the Guardian will also tackle something bigger - a reader driven prize looking at a different set of books. Perhaps books from non-Commonwealth English speaking countries (there's a big one across the pond, right?). Or perhaps a prize for books translated into English. Or maybe round up the year's self-published novels and see what gems lie there. But I suppose I should be satisfied for now and get reading.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

I finished GyörgyDragomán's "The White King" a few days ago and perhaps it says something about the way I've been branching out recently, but I found the book to be most interesting and quite excellent. It wasn't just the jist of the book - a Hungarian author writing about communist Romania (or thereabouts) through the eyes of a child - but also how the book was done and where it came from. Diversity in literature is always good and "The White King" took me someplace familiar but somehow new.

It's strange to see how the book was received. Published by a major publishing house in March of 2008, it received a few fairly praiseworthy (but simultaneously vague) reviews in a number of different publications and has a small amount of customer reviews on various sites. The customer reviews that do exist are also flattering, though most agree that it's a difficult read. Because it is. Parts of the book made me cringe not because of the writing, but rather because I could recognize the horror of the situation that the 11-year old narrator (nicknamed "Djata", though his real name is never revealed) could not. It is the sign of a competent writer, I think, to create a world that makes the reader at once uncomfortable, eager to read on and completely in tune with the character, viewing the world through the childish eyes yet understanding it with the adult mind.

What is particularly remarkable about "The White King" is the careful balance between adult and child. "Djata" is a preteen living in a Soviet world, telling his story in a childlike manner. On the one hand, he recognizes important moments where he ought to act like an "adult" and yet other times he resorts to younger behaviour patterns, such as reminding the reader of an event that took place a few chapters earlier. He, like many children his age, constantly attempts to act older and more mature in order to prove himself. Yet he holds on tightly to childish hopes and dreams, convincing himself that things will get better, unrealistically. It displays the contradiction that is growing up perfectly, having the childish and the mature side-by-side.

I'm particularly struck by how "technically standard" the book is. Coming-of-age books are so common the genre is cluttered. Books structured with chapter-stories can be found almost everywhere. Stories about the atrocities or the horrors of difficult regimes are not new. Somehow, though, all aspects merge to make a book I liked a great deal. Now, a few days later, I find myself wanting to continue reading it, as though there are more chapters hidden in the back cover. I suppose the ending is unsatisfying in that sense, but I'm not sure I can fault the author. After all, the book is well written, stuck with me and nudged me to write about how "Djata" is an excellent embodiment of the blurry child-adult line. And as for the why the book has not received more press, though, I simply don't know.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

This old "customer" review of "Of Mice and Men" is perhaps the most thoughtful one-star review I've encountered recently:

Although this book was very well written, I couldn't understand it very well. I probably would not have finished it if it hadn't been required reading for school. I would think that older kids might be able to undertsand it, but that most of it is too subtle for eighth graders.

I read "Of Mice and Men" that year later in ninth grade but found that the story made perfect sense while, interestingly enough, the Steinbeck of the year from eighth grade ("The Pearl", which remains one of the most terrible books I've ever read) didn't. However, I've reread "The Pearl" since then, found it as bad as it ever was, and yet "Of Mice and Men" remains one of my top favorite books. This review does point out problems with the education system that allows eighth graders to feel this way ("Oh, I guess it's a good book but I'm just too stupid to get it."), but the honesty of the reviewer deserves its mention. Meanwhile, this comment was left below:

Eighth graders???!!! Are you kidding me? By thirteen ANYONE should be able to understand this, unless the world is going very quickly downhill...

Just goes to show that sometimes the commenters who are convinced they are enlightening others are absolute idiots and simply cruel.

Friday, August 7, 2009

A few days ago, I took advantage of some free time to sit down with a couple of library books. Topping the list was "Inverted World" by Christopher Priest, a book I'd picked up randomly, in part because I saw it was a NYRB edition (strange for this library) and also because I thought a break from the usual in the form of science fiction would be welcome. In truth it was, but as with a few other unexpected reads I've encountered recently, the points that cropped up had little to do with the story itself.

In "Inverted World", Priest switches back and forth between third person and first person. The uniqueness in this is that the narrating character doesn't change. Often, when a book shifts point of view, it's because the reader is moving in the direction of another character's take on the subject. Here, however, part II maintains Helward as the main character, continues his story precisely where it left off in part I, and the only difference is that the reader is now officially "out of his head". It is not a failed device. The story continues unobstructed and doesn't find itself so complicated by the changes that the reader can't continue. But reading the book, there appears to be no reason for this different format.

The solution to this odd narration mystery is as bizarre as the point itself. According to Wikipedia, the book's structure is meant to follow the shape of the strange world in which Helward lives - the inverted world. But reading the book did not hint at this, where the author attempts to emphasize the strangeness of his science fiction through the writing style. It seems odd that Priest would craft his book so carefully but would not reveal in his writing even the slightest hint that the point-of-view changes are meant to shadow the story. The mysteries of the world itself are only revealed deep in the book - perhaps this is why I was unable to catch on.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Looking around today in a small used bookstore, I came across "Daniel Deronda". This is a fairly organized store, but the occasional book will find itself misplaced, usually just accidentally stuck one shelf above or below its appropriate home. But after a few moments of continued browsing, I found two extremely elegant editions of "The Mill on the Floss" by George Eliot, an entire bookcase away from "Daniel Deronda".

"Daniel Deronda", also written by George Eliot. I took a step back and where was Daniel? Alongside the complete works of Daniel Defoe. The chunky Deronda was quickly snatched and placed between "The Mill on the Floss" and "Adam Bede", thankfully located on the E shelf and nowhere near Samuel Beckett or Saul Bellow.